


Access All Areas (or: How Spencer Smith Got His Groove Back)

by MistressKat



Series: Access All Areas [1]
Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bandom - Freeform, Best Friends, Ensemble Cast, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-22
Updated: 2010-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-07 11:47:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressKat/pseuds/MistressKat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan and Spencer own a vintage clothing shop. Spencer gets himself some goddamn attitude. Clichéd shenanigans ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Access All Areas (or: How Spencer Smith Got His Groove Back)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pushkin666](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pushkin666/gifts).



> This is a Sweet Charity assignment for [pushkin666](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pushkin666) and was originally finished and given to her within an acceptable margin of the deadline. However, for reasons related to RL commitments and my brain being difficult, it took me _over six months_ to sit my ass down and do the required post-beta edits and additions. Have I mentioned how much I fail? Many, _many_ thanks to my two amazing beta-readers [bloodbelieve](http://bloodbelieve.livejournal.com/) and [desfinado](http://desfinado.livejournal.com/), whose comments and suggestions were invaluable and made this fic much better than it originally was. Many thanks also to [trialia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/trialia) who gave the fic the final check-up and found many missing commas. Readers are advised to note that I know nothing about fashion, vintage or otherwise. I googled some shit, it's probably all ridiculously inaccurate. Additionally, I'm fully aware that Spencer's turn on the catwalk is utterly unrealistic but STFU – getting him to wave that riding crop around was way higher on my list of priorities.

Some people never find the love of their life. The one that makes you soar to the heights of happiness, or plunge to the depths of despair, sometimes both at the same time. That great love that you would do anything to keep, the one that fills you with so much mixed-up emotion that some days you can’t tell what it is that you’re feeling, just that your heart aches from it.

Some people never find it.

Spencer has. Twice.

  
***

  
The shop opens at 10.30, which is a random time if you don’t realise how it is in fact bang in the middle between 9 (“When all respectable businesses open, Ryan!”) and 12 (“You think we went into vintage fashion to be _respectable_? We sell go-go boots!”). It was a compromise they could both live with. Besides, it’s not as if their usual clientèle is the type to greet the sunrise.

Unlike Spencer, who is getting to work even earlier than usual. The city is still stretching itself awake, sluggish and grumpy, as he walks through the mostly empty streets, balancing a cup of coffee and three folders. Spencer likes the quiet. He uses the early mornings for paperwork, accounts, updating the website – all the boring but necessary jobs that keep a small business like theirs afloat. The truth is Spencer doesn’t mind most of it and even not-so-secretly enjoys some of it. There’s always been something about a neatly-laid-out spreadsheet that appeals to the side of his personality that would have probably gone for the MBA and a job in a multinational corporation, if not for Ryan.

Ryan, who presumably uses the extra hour-and-a-half in the mornings to sleep. Or possibly to contemplate the fall of capitalism or to have disgustingly languid and skinny-limbed early morning sex with whomever he’s taken to his bed the night before.

As a rule, Spencer tries not to think about the last two options too closely. Marxism tends to give him a migraine on the best of days, and experience tells him that wallowing in thoughts about what Ryan does and with whom will only lead to eating too much ice-cream and watching _Love Actually_ for the thirty-sixth time.

Spencer refuses to be a cliché, although the whole in-unrequited-love-with-your-best-friend thing really cramps his style.

He rolls his eyes at himself, hefting up the folders that threaten to slip from the crook of his arm as he rounds the last corner. As usual, the sight of his destination makes Spencer’s chest swell with pride and contentment.

He digs out the keys, nudging the front door open, then shut again, with his hip. Carefully, he steps over a pile of mail, picks his way around the rack of truly ghastly neon-coloured tube-tops, narrowly avoids a half-dressed mannequin and then promptly trips over Ryan’s long legs.

“_What the fu—?_” The papers go flying, though Spencer manages to save his coffee. He has priorities.

Ryan is sprawled on the floor, looking supremely comfortable and pleased with himself despite his position.

Spencer takes in the dishevelled state of Ryan’s clothes and the lazy way he’s twisting a Rubik’s Cube around without any serious attempt at solving it.

“Oh my god.” Spencer’s eyes skitter over the fresh hickey forming just above Ryan’s collarbone, before he resolutely trains them on Ryan’s face. “Tell me you didn’t.”

“_Good morning, Ryan. How are you, Ryan? Would you like a coffee, Ryan?_ Why yes I would Spencer, thank you. You are the best Best Friend a guy could hope for.” Ryan climbs to his feet, making grabby hands at Spencer’s thermos.

“At the moment you should consider me a Very Angry Business Partner instead,” Spencer says, slapping at Ryan’s hands. Angry is ten times better than jealous. Spencer does not look when Ryan buckles his belt. A hundred times better. _A thousand_. “Please, for the sake of my sanity and our cleaning bill, say that you didn’t have sex with Gabe in the shop. _Again_.”

Ryan shrugs, not looking even a little bit embarrassed. “Would you relax, Spence. Gabe likes it. The ‘80s room gets him very...” Ryan grins lazily. “_Inspired_. And when he’s inspired, well I—”

“Stop right there.” Spencer holds up a hand to prevent Ryan from providing any further details. He’s going to have to add bleach to his coffee as it is. The worst part is that Spencer isn’t exactly surprised to learn about Gabe’s preferences for the ‘80s section. After all, the guy wears most of it.

“You’re just grumpy because you haven’t gotten laid for, what is it, four months now? That big blond guy who was passing through?” Ryan’s voice is teasing, but there’s a serious undercurrent to the question, like Ryan really wants to know.

Spencer ignores it, wondering mournfully if it’s too late to call Bob and take him up on his offer after all. Bob was great, Bob never talked about the cultural importance of the socialist movement (or much at all) and he owned one sweet motorbike.

Ryan comes over, nudging his arm in a placatory fashion and fitting himself next to Spencer where he’s sitting on the window ledge. He leans on Spencer’s shoulder, all ankles and sleepy warmth.

Spencer feels his anger dissipate. Bob was also not Ryan, which is why watching him ride into the metaphorical sunset hadn’t been that difficult in the end.

He leans back against Ryan and silently hands over his thermos. Ryan makes a happy, vaguely indecent noise and takes a sip, his eyelids heavy with bliss. Spencer is pathetically, _pathologically _in love, but there’s no one here to see except Ryan and if he hasn’t figured it out yet he never will.

With a resigned sigh Spencer gathers up his papers and pretends to work while Ryan entertains himself by reading out loud chosen quotes from old issues of _The Socialist_. The air smells comfortingly of coffee and fabric softener, dust motes dancing in the solitary sunbeam cutting across the floorboards. They stay right where they are until it’s time to open the shop, sitting side by side, the window glass warming slowly against their backs.

  
***

  
Ryan is Spencer’s first love, and he didn’t even have to go searching for him. In fact, technically, it was Ryan who found Spencer; sitting alone in a sandpit, sulking because the bigger kids had stolen his truck and wouldn’t let him play. Ryan hadn’t spoken a word to him that first day, but he had gotten Spencer his truck back. Of course, it was lost again within a week, but by that time Spencer didn’t much care. After all, he had Ryan.

Two decades later, they find Spencer’s second love together, in the ‘For Auction’ section of the local newspaper.

***

The shop is what one might call ‘quirky’ if one was feeling generous and prone to smelling of incense. It’s located in the ironically trendy Western Quarter of the city, and sandwiched between a Polish delicatessen and a DVD rental place specialising in Independent Cinema and gay porn. Spencer still cringes inwardly about the time he sat down with Ryan to watch what was supposed to be a documentary about the rise of socialism in Scandinavia, and ended up being an entirely different sort of a story about the ‘struggles of the working man’. In Spencer’s defence, one Swedish title looks much like the other when you don’t speak the language and are only picking up the film because your best friend whined at you until you said you would.

The outside of the shop is painted deep burgundy with a stencilled pattern that Ryan insists is tasteful and Spencer knows is simply ridiculous. But because it makes Ryan happy he is prepared to put up with the reputation that comes from being a co-owner of a shop decorated in paisley.

Over the door and listing slightly to the left is a sign with _Access All Areas_ written across it in funky cursive that, according to Brendon, their one and only employee, embodies free spirit and individuality. Spencer is pretty sure it _actually _embodies Brendon’s love of glitter and Spencer’s own inability to say _no _in the face of Brendon’s enthusiastic grin.

Inside the shop is surprisingly organised and well-lit, the layout making the space seem much bigger than it really is. The clothes are arranged according to the decade and displayed with some carefully chosen period-appropriate items. Spencer had put his foot down and so the only bead-curtain in the entire shop is the one separating the ‘60s and ‘70s rooms.

_Access All Areas_ sells vintage clothes and accessories, the majority salvaged from flea-markets and estates and lovingly restored by Ryan. He and Spencer both harbour a not-so-secret resentment toward disposable fashion: cheap clothes made by underpaid workers in less economically developed countries and designed to be worn only a few times before being thrown away. Therefore, the few newly made ‘retro’ lines they stock all come from local designers and use only ethically sourced materials.

They have _principles_, and just because Spencer doesn’t rant about them to anyone who stays still long enough like _some people_, don’t mean he doesn’t believe in them just as passionately. Their profit margins stay modest, but then again neither Spencer nor Ryan got into this business for money. Well, okay, Spencer did, a little bit. But someone has to keep their feet on the ground. Besides, it’s difficult to muster the energy to fight the good fight with an empty stomach.

***

 

Brendon strolls in sometime during the afternoon, waving a cheery hello and tossing his hoodie over the nearest mannequin. Spencer is pretty sure his shift officially started an hour ago but the rota at _Access All Areas_ is more of a suggestion than a strictly-followed regimen. And as long as it works, Spencer doesn’t really mind that much, although he still prints it out and pins it onto the notice board. Usually, the rota sheet is decorated with stickers, doodles and quotes of poetry within a day.

Brendon has been with them from the beginning, about two years now. Spencer and Ryan had decided early on that it was necessary for their continued health and friendship to hire a third person. They’d interviewed what felt like half of the city’s student population until Brendon had stumbled in the door. Five minutes into the interview he had made Ryan almost-laugh twice and Spencer had known that this was the one they were going to keep.

Afterwards, they’d seen Brendon out and were supposed to be having a serious business meeting to carefully consider all the candidates. Of course, the fact that they were going to hire Brendon was so obvious it didn’t even need discussing and they really were just kicking their heels instead. In the middle of an intense game of Donkey Kong, Ryan had gotten a narrow-eyed look and said: “You know, he’s actually kind of hot.”

Spencer had fumbled the buttons, causing his character to die in a pixelated explosion. Brendon _was _hot, and Spencer couldn’t honestly say he was surprised that Ryan had noticed. His best friend was kind of slutty when you got right down to it. “Yeah, in that annoying puppy-dog-on-crack sort of way, sure,” he’d said. It had come out snarkier than he’d meant, enough so that Ryan had raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“So, you going for it?” Spencer had asked, trying to cover up. He’d kept his eyes resolutely on the screen, watching the endless loop of the graphics so he didn’t have to watch Ryan.

“What? Of course not!” Ryan had exclaimed, sounding so indignant about it that Spencer had to believe him.

He couldn’t help but feel relieved, even though he didn’t really get it. “I don’t get it,” he’d said, finally turning around. “Why not?”

Ryan had looked at him like he was being dense on purpose. “Because he’s going to be our _employee_. I can’t fuck around with someone I _work with_. It wouldn’t be ethical.”

Ryan’s face had been open and earnest, and Spencer had wanted nothing more than to punch his lights out.

Instead he’d swallowed down the bitter taste in his mouth, clutched a hand to his heart and said, mock serious: “I’m so proud. You’ve gone and grown morals. Did it hurt?”

Ryan had flipped him off laconically and they’d gone back to the game.

And later that night Spencer had gotten more drunk than he had been for a long time. Because stupid as it was, it had still felt like another rejection.

  
***

  
“_Wentz Designs_.”

Spencer props the phone between his ear and shoulder while simultaneously clicking through his inbox. “I thought you were going with _Clandestine_?”

“_Clandestine _is a stupid name,” Patrick says. Then, his voice dropping to a husky purr: “_Spencer_. It’s so _good _to hear from you.”

Spencer blinks, his fingers freezing on the keyboard. “Jesus Christ, Patrick,” he says. “Give a guy some warning.”

“Oh, but where’s the fun in that?” Patrick sounds like he should be selling sex toys instead of handling the business and marketing of one of the most wanted young designers in the state.

Speaking of which... “Pete’s sitting next you, isn’t he?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

Spencer laughs. “You are evil, you know that, right?”

Pete may be Patrick’s long-time friend and sort-of boss, but he’s also completely in love with Patrick – he just hasn’t realised it yet.

Patrick, who Spencer thinks must have the patience of a saint to put up with Pete at all, has finally gotten tired of waiting for him to catch on. On their recent beer-and-bitching date Spencer had suggested Patrick should simply push Pete against the nearest wall and improvise it from there. Patrick, however, had decided that a bold move like that required some groundwork to be successful. Hence their sudden, steamy and entirely fake romance.

Patrick had told Spencer that he should make it work to his advantage too, but in the end, Spencer had let Ryan in on their ‘make Pete so jealous he either proposes or explodes in a green puff of impotent rage” plan. Spencer knows he is incapable of lying to Ryan’s face so he doesn’t see the point in trying. The only reason Ryan doesn’t know about Spencer’s own pathetic case of head-over-heels is because so far he hasn’t asked the right questions.

Spencer is yanked back to the present when Patrick laughs at the other end of the line. “Of course,” he says, low and intimate in Spencer’s ear. “But you know you like it when I’m a little... _mean_.”

Spencer promptly chokes on his own tongue. There’s a strangled sound in the background that tells him he wasn’t the only one.

Okay, enough is enough. “Put me on the speaker,” he tells Patrick. Two can play this game.

“Why?” Patrick sounds suspicious.

“Because there’s something I need to discuss with both you and Pete. Something business-related, okay?”

There’s a short pause during which Patrick clearly does some complicated risk assessment and Spencer deletes twelve spam emails.

Finally there’s a sudden increase in the background noise and Patrick informs Spencer that he is on the speakerphone.

“Pete,” Spencer greets brusquely. He didn’t lie; he does actually have some business to talk about with both partners of _Wentz Designs_ (formerly _Clandestine_,_ P&amp;P Fashion_, and, memorably,_ Bats Have Hearts Too_).

Spencer clarifies a couple of points with Patrick and Pete, sorting out a new order and talking about the charity show _Access All Areas_ and _Wentz Designs_ are both contributing to. After fifteen minutes or so Spencer has lulled them both into the security of mundane shop talk. He estimates that it’s the perfect time to advance Patrick’s plan.

“Excellent,” Spencer says, saving the spreadsheet on the computer screen. “I’ll see you tonight then.”

“What?” Pete and Patrick ask in unison.

Spencer puts some quality pout into his voice. “Oh don’t tell me you’ve forgotten, Trick.” Using Pete’s special nickname for Patrick is pretty low, but Spencer figures the end justifies the means.

“It’s Patrick’s and my two-week anniversary. And I’ve got something...” Spencer grins and puts on his best porn voice, “..._extra special_ planned.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply, just hangs up on Patrick’s silence and the sound of Pete kicking the desk. Spencer is awesome. He totally expects Pete to cave within twenty-four hours and be in Patrick’s bed in twenty-five.

The door bangs suddenly and Spencer startles, turning around just in time to catch a sight of Ryan’s retreating back. It’s not unusual for Ryan to flit between the office and his own sewing room, but it is unusual for him to do it without perching on the edge of Spencer’s desk to talk.

Spencer frowns, considers getting up and going after Ryan. But his inbox is still full of emails marked ‘urgent’ and if Ryan didn’t take the time to say hi then he must be busy too.

  
***

  
The whole thing just doesn’t make any sense, which is probably what Spencer resents most about it. Spencer likes things to make sense. He’s a sensible person, who went to University to do a sensible degree (Business Management with a minor in Fashion Industry – an entirely sensible combination since he and Ryan had talked about starting a vintage clothes shop ever since they were 16 and 17 and Ryan started sewing his own outfits because he couldn’t find what he liked anywhere).

Falling in love with his best friend went against all natural laws, Spencer’s very sensible personality and everything modern media has taught him about romance.

They’ve known each other since they were toddlers and Spencer has seen Ryan at his worst – sick, drunk, self-pitying. He knows all his secrets, disgusting habits and less-than-admirable characteristics. Like how Ryan eats his cereal with orange juice and clips his toenails in the kitchen. Or how one time he cheated in a maths test, or the three times he cheated on his high school girlfriend. Or how he can be a manipulative bitch and unnecessarily cruel to people he doesn’t like or agree with. Or how...

Of course there’s another side to that coin (really, if there wasn’t Spencer’s life would probably be much easier). Spencer knows Ryan can be too generous for his own good and needs Spencer to watch out for him so no one takes advantage of that. He’s passionate and intense and scarily intelligent, has an incorrigible sweet tooth and wants to learn to play the guitar.

Spencer is one of the few people who can make Ryan laugh – really laugh, not just twist his lips sardonically. He makes sure Ryan doesn’t take himself too seriously, but is the only one Ryan trusts enough to be serious with when he needs to.

In the end, Spencer thinks, it may not have been logical for him to fall in love with Ryan. But perhaps it was inevitable.

That doesn’t mean he has to like it.

  
***

  
Spencer straightens up from where he’s been sitting bent over the computer, stretching the crick from his neck. The clock on the wall tells him it’s way past home time, but he can still hear Brendon bustling on the shop floor, tidying up after the customers. Ryan had left as soon as they’d locked up, muttering something about seeing a gig with Gabe and uncharacteristically not inviting Spencer along. He usually did, mainly because Ryan didn’t see a reason not to and had no regard for proper date protocol – especially as he didn’t so much _date _as sleep with a string of people he also found interesting in some way.

Not that Spencer would have accepted. Not because Spencer hates Gabe or anything (in fact, Gabe makes hating him fairly impossible by sheer force of his relentlessly cheerful personality and inane fashion sense). It’s just that spending the night watching Ryan and Gabe compete over who could wriggle a hand into whose skinny jeans faster, is not his idea of a good time.

Still, it stung. Spencer hunches lower in his ergonomically-designed chair. What’s more, Ryan has been avoiding him most of the day, despite their companionable morning. Which is why Spencer is hiding in the backroom, playing Mario Kart on the computer and quite possibly sulking.

“Spencer Smith,” Brendon says from the doorway. He is, inexplicably, wearing a pinafore. “Are you sulking?”

“I am not sulking.” Spencer pauses the game, casting a disbelieving eye over the candy-striped monstrosity Brendon is dressed in. “Are you making some sort of a political statement?”

“You’ve been hanging around with Ryan for way too long. I just think it makes me look pretty.” Brendon grins, batting his eyelashes exaggeratedly.

“It makes you look ridiculous,” Spencer says, but can’t help grinning back.

“That too,” Brendon admits easily. “There’s a new bar,” he continues. “Jon and Tom are taking me there. You should come with. They have cocktails!”

Brendon is practically bouncing on the spot. “Think of the colours, Spencer! And the tiny paper umbrellas!”

Spencer takes a moment to contemplate the image of Brendon in a cocktail bar, all the alcohol, sugar and innuendo-laden names, and decides that such a thing probably shouldn’t be allowed without supervision. Jon and Tom don’t count as Spencer is pretty sure they are trying to get into Brendon’s pants and therefore cannot be trusted to remain objective.

“Fine,” he says, turning off the computer and grabbing his jacket.

“Really?” Brendon gapes. Spencer isn’t usually this agreeable for extemporaneous outings. “You’re really coming?”

Spencer raises an eyebrow. “You’re really wearing that to the bar?”

Brendon glances down at himself. “Well, maybe I am making a little bit of a political statement after all,” he says.

“Who isn’t?” Spencer sighs. “C’mon then, before I change my mind.”

Outside Tom and Jon are leaning on the wall, loose-limbed and smiling. If they are surprised to find Spencer crashing in on their night out with Brendon, they don’t show it.

“Nice dress,” Tom says, offering his arm to Brendon who accepts it with some giggling. Jon nudges Spencer in a friendly fashion and there’s worry and sympathy lurking in the corners of his eyes.

“Just don’t ask,” Spencer says. “I was promised cocktails.”

“Fair enough,” says Jon. “This way, if you please.”

  
***

The next morning dawns bright and painful. Spencer groans and wastes a few precious minutes sincerely regretting that third Purple Hooter. Then he downs about a gallon of water, jams on his biggest pair of sunglasses, getting to the shop barely in time for its opening. He’s scheduled to man the counter today, and the fact that it coincides with the first hangover Spencer’s had in six months is fucking typical of his life right now.

The shop is blissfully shaded and cool. Spencer gropes blindly through the ‘80s section (too much neon) and squints the rest of the way. He opens the register, sits down and carefully lays his head on his folded arms. Technically, he’s at work.

Ryan comes in around noon, by which time Spencer has managed to sell a pair of genuine bell-bottoms, a fake alligator skin belt and one of Pete’s retro design t-shirts, all without vomiting once. Saturday is the busiest day of the week so they’ve staggered the shifts with maximum overlap time and Brendon, the lucky S.O.B., is not due for another two hours.

Ryan takes one look at Spencer’s face and purses his lips together in a thin line of disapproval.

“What?” Spencer asks.

“Good night then?” The question is mild, but Ryan’s tone isn’t.

Spencer feels his temper flare. It’s not like he makes a habit of turning up to work with a hangover and Ryan damn well knows it.

“Yeah, it really was.” Spencer makes himself smile widely even though the effort threatens to split his head in two. “You? How was the show?”

Ryan ignores the question, huffily dropping a box of unsorted clothes on to the counter. “I would have thought Patrick had more sense than to get you drunk on a work night?”

“What are you? My mom?” Spencer stares at Ryan, both irritated and confused. “I was out with Brendon and Jon and Tom. What the hell has Patrick got to do with anything?”

Ryan shrugs. “We bumped into Pete at the gig. He said Patrick had gone out with you.” Ryan straightens up and glares at Spencer. “He’s really upset, you know. You two should be more considerate of his feelings.”

Spencer opens and closes his mouth in silence for a few seconds. He can’t decide whether he should be offended or laugh it off. In the end anger wins. Ryan ignored him yesterday, fucked off with his not-boyfriend, didn’t text him once during the night like normal and now turns all borderline personality disorder on him out of the blue when Spencer’s head is killing him and all he wants to do is curl in a ball and sleep but had dragged himself to work anyway.

“What the hell, Ryan?” he snaps, standing up to face Ryan directly across the counter. “Far as I remember, you thought Patrick’s plan was hilarious last week. What changed? You suddenly want to fuck _Pete _on the shop floor too? Maybe have a little threesome and roll around on the ruffled shirts, huh? Bet Gabe would just love that.”

Spencer is kind of breathless by the time he finishes shouting and Ryan’s face has gone pale and pinched.

“Um.”

Spencer and Ryan whip around. There’s a guy standing nearby, half-hidden behind the railing of housecoats. “Is this a bad time?” he asks, eyes darting around nervously. Even his hair looks apprehensive, sticking up like a startled bird’s nest. He’s gingerly holding a white ruffled shirt between his thumb and forefinger.

“No, not at all,” Spencer says, more than a little annoyed; arguing in front of a customer – very classy, very professional. “Ryan here is happy to help you.”

The whole thing was Ryan’s fault, let him sort it. Spencer turns around and stalks towards the back of the shop. He needs some time to calm down. Maybe to throw up, too.

  
***

Spencer is sitting on the stockroom floor, leaning against a pile of clothing sacks waiting for their charity pick-up. Everything they can’t sell in their shop gets donated to a women’s co-op in Ecuador. It always makes him smile to think that somewhere there is a village where shoulder pads and leggings are still _haute couture_.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been there, could be twenty minutes, could be an hour. It’s cool and relatively dark and it’s entirely possible he’d dozed off for a while. He should probably get up and do some work, or at least go home and write today off as a proper sick day.

Spencer sighs. He’d actually had a good time last night, but now the pleasure of it feels tainted by his stupid row with Ryan – which, honestly, Spencer is still not sure what it was about except Ryan being a complete and utter dick for no reason.

Speaking of (Ryan, not dick), the stockroom door inches open with a creak and a familiar figure shuffles in. Ryan nudges the door shut with his foot and when he gets closer Spencer sees he has his hands full of food and drink.

“I didn’t know what you’d like. Or be fit to consume,” Ryan says, dropping down cross-legged next to Spencer. He hands over a cup of coffee, water, two types of soda and a wide selection of sweet and savoury snacks.

“Ass,” Spencer says and grabs the bottle of water. He knows an apology when he sees it.

“Well, um, that might be a little awkward and all...” For some reason Ryan is actually _blushing_.

Spencer rewinds the conversation in his head, blinks, blinks again, and then starts laughing.

Ryan grins at him and then they’re both giggling, instantly regressing to when they were eight and nine and dirty words were inherently funny.

The hilarity is suddenly interrupted by a giant yawn that takes over Spencer’s face.

“Seriously, did you get any sleep at all or were you out all night partying?” Ryan asks. His voice is carefully neutral this time but more than twenty years of friendship means Spencer can tell when he’s holding something back.

“A couple of hours,” Spencer answers. He’s too tired to get angry again, or try to find out what’s got Ryan acting so weird. He lists back toward the softness of the clothes bags. A nap, that’s all he needs. “Shouldn’t you go check no one’s robbing us blind?”

“Nah, I’m good.” Ryan takes his phone out, settling more comfortably against the wall. Spencer is pretty sure there is no reception inside the stockroom. “I’ve left Brendon in charge. He, by the way, looks even worse.”

“Table-dancing will do that to a guy,” Spencer says, yawning again. “Don’t worry, I totally took photos.”

“Enough to blackmail Brendon into taking the morning shift for the next week?”

“More like the next month.”

Ryan smirks and bumps fists with Spencer. “_This _is why you’re my best friend.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Spencer grumbles, closing his eyes.

Turns out he’s too tired to feel heartsick either, because when Ryan curls up next to him a few minutes later, Spencer doesn’t even think, just tucks him close and goes back to sleep.

  
***

By Monday Spencer is feeling like himself again. It’s officially his day off but that doesn’t really mean much when you’re self-employed. Spencer compromises and doesn’t get to the shop until noon.

Brendon and Ryan don’t look particularly surprised to see him. Brendon makes pitiful demands for Spencer to destroy the photos from Friday but Spencer just smirks and tells him he’s already saved several copies.

Ryan is laughing, easy and carefree, exchanging a casual high-five with Spencer as he walks past. Whatever was making him behave like a moody teenager seems to be gone now. Spencer breathes a sigh of relief, settling next to Ryan, the three of them leaning on the till like a snappily dressed re-enactment of _Clerks_.

Brendon is still whining about how much he hates them both when the front door bell jingles and Victoria walks in, looking frazzled.

“Vicky,” Brendon greets her. “You don’t seem your normal glamorous self today. What’s wrong?”

Victoria brushes her windswept hair off her face, and even stressed and tired, she’s one of the hottest people Spencer knows. He would totally go for it, even knowing he would crash and burn, if not for the fact that she’s happily engaged and Nate might do something rash like maybe try to kick his ass or worse still, stop shopping at _Access All Areas_. He’d even told Victoria that but she’d only kissed Spencer’s cheek and told her that Nate would do no such thing but that neither of them were used to being anyone’s second choice.

Victoria collapses on one of the chrome bar stools they keep mainly for the_ Risky Business_ effect. “Nate’s sick,” she says.

Everyone straightens up. Spencer feels the first thread of apprehension tightening in his chest.

“Oh no, no.” Victoria raises her hand reassuringly, when she sees their faces, pale with worry. “It’s nothing serious. Just a nasty stomach flu. But he was going to model something for me at the charity show.”

She props her elbows onto the counter, chin resting against her hands and her eyes flitting between the three of them in a calculating fashion.

“Spencer...” she drawls finally, smiling at him.

“What?” Spencer is wary but there are dark shadows under Victoria’s eyes and he can’t help but reach over and take her hand. “What is it?” he asks, voice softer now.

“Would you step in, please? You know how important the show is to me and Nate and there’s already been a lot of interest in that particular piece...” She looks at him imploringly. “I need someone to model it and if Nate can’t do it, well you’re my next choice.”

Next to him Ryan snorts.

Spencer ignores him and says: “You can’t be serious, Vicky. You know dozens of professional models, why me?”

Victoria smiles tiredly. “Well okay, you’re my next choice _after _I rang every single male model on my contact list and they were all booked. But please, Spencer.” She winks at him. “It’s a sexy suit. I should know, I made it. It’s only ten minutes on a runway and some photos for the press. There’s a party afterwards.”

Put like that it doesn’t sound so bad. And it is for the charity show Spencer’s already promised to help out with anyway... “I don’t know, Vicky,” he says.

Ryan’s crossed his arms now, looking derisive and pissed off for no reason that Spencer can think of. “Spencer’s not exactly the model type,” he says.

And, well, it’s not that Spencer doesn’t think the same thing, but hearing it still stings.

“Rubbish,” Victoria says, shooting a glare at Ryan. “I think you’re hot. And you would look even hotter strutting around that catwalk in a VickyT original.”

Spencer is still dubious about the whole strutting thing, but then he glances at Ryan and his disdainfully raised eyebrow and_ fuck it_, Spencer thinks.

“I’ll do it,” he says.

Ryan’s mouth drops open in surprise and that alone is totally worth any humiliation that may follow later.

Victoria hugs Spencer, already dialling Nate on her phone to share the good news.

“Yeah!” Brendon exclaims, clapping Spencer on the back. “It’ll be awesome! And this time _I’m_ bringing the camera.”

  
***

  
Spencer regrets his decision as soon as he sees the outfit he’s supposed to be modelling.

“Oh _hell _no,” he says, wrapping his arms protectively around his middle. He had pictured something with a herringbone pattern. Or maybe a funky hoodie. Spencer could totally rock a hoodie on a catwalk.

He cannot, however, rock _this_.

“What’s wrong with it?” Victoria sounds pissy, staring at him with her hands on her hips.

Spencer realises that he may have just inadvertently insulted the designer and is in immediate danger of having his balls ripped off.

“Oh, um, nothing. It’s very...”_ Billy Idol on acid_, Spencer wants to say but self-preservation makes him go with: “...’80s punk rock. With uh, some definite influences from other periods.”

Victoria beams at him approvingly. “Good eye, Spencer. I wanted to portray the struggle of hypermasculinity in the post-postmodern era of metropolitan tribes. A sort of _Velvet Goldmine_ meets Sid Vicious in a vegan diner.” She reaches over and untangles some of the chains hanging off of the jacket. “Or maybe a fetish club.”

Spencer feels faint.

“Here,” Victoria thrusts the clothes at him. “You can go and change in the bathroom so we can see how it looks. You’re quite a bit taller than Nate, but I think we can work with that.”

Spencer goes. Maybe the bathroom window is big enough for him to escape through.

  
***

  
Fifteen minutes later Spencer has run out of excuses to delay the inevitable. Victoria’s bathroom only has a small ventilation flap and if Spencer stays here any longer she’s going to come and physically drag him out.

Spencer unlocks the door and totters back to the living room. There are voices drifting out but they are cut off abruptly as Spencer steps through the doorway.

There’s a painful silence during which Spencer contemplates the latest proof of just how much the universe hates him. Draped over Victoria’s chintz-covered sofa like a large python is none other than Gabe Saporta.

“Holy shit!” Gabe says, staring at him openly while Victoria claps her hands together.

“I know!” Spencer says, spreading his hands. “Sorry Vicky, I just don’t think I can pull this off. _At all_. Maybe it’s best if you find someone else to—”

But Victoria doesn’t let Spencer finish the sentence. She makes shushing noises, grabs the measuring tape and mouthful of pins, and propels Spencer around until he’s standing in front of a wall-length mirror.

Reluctantly Spencer takes the first proper look at himself while Victoria is busy measuring things and muttering about inseams.

Overall Victoria’s creation is like a drugged-up version of Westwood and McLaren’s bondage suit. The knee-length coat is vaguely steampunkish with a high collar and pinstripes. However, there is a line of steel rings running down the spine, with corresponding chains at the sleeves.

The pants are tight, with a subtle snakeskin pattern. Over them Spencer is wearing a black pleated kilt-type wraparound that barely reaches mid-thigh. Over _that _there is a seriously heavy-duty leather belt hanging off his hips. Like the jacket, the belt is garnished with metal links, quite clearly meant to carry an assortment of tools, the purpose of which Spencer tries very hard not to think about.

The ankle boots are the same midnight blue as the belt. They are also undeniably high-heeled and sparkly. Spencer is going to kill himself walking on them.

As far as he’s concerned, that humiliating death just can’t come fast enough.

The boots put him at eye-level with Gabe and therefore perfectly positioned to watch his pupils widen as he looks Spencer up and down.

“_Oh my god_,” Spencer says, scandalised despite himself. “Are you _checking me out_?”

Gabe pays him no heed. “Victoria,” he sighs. “You have outdone yourself. That outfit is _sex_. The really kinky kind with whips and shit.”

“I feel so unclean,” Spencer laments.

“_Pfft_.” Gabe cocks his head and regards Spencer like a puppy looks at a new chew toy. Spencer is not reassured. “You look hot, Spencer. You just got to believe it.”

Victoria nods in agreement. “Spencer,” she says and now she sounds almost... maternal, which _seriously_. “This suit both portrays and rejects the diverse representations of modern masculinity and it does it aggressively. Conformity is death. You must fight it.”

Spencer blinks. “Huh?”

“What she means,” Gabe says, “is that you need some goddamn _attitude_.”

Spencer turns back to the mirror. _Attitude_, he thinks. Okay. He closes his eyes and pictures the idiot in a BMW who almost ran over him yesterday, thinks about everyone who ever told him he was a fool risking everything on the shop, and lets himself wallow in how Ryan has never even considered him as an option when Spencer can’t seem to see any others.

And yes, okay. Maybe Spencer can do this after all.

“Oh, that’s it!” Gabe exclaims and when Spencer opens his eyes to glare at him, he only grins wider.

“Of course,” Spencer says. “This is my life. I’m taking modelling lessons from my best friend’s boyfriend. Perfect.”

“Ex.”

“What?” Spencer blinks at him uncomprehendingly.

“Ex-boyfriend, ex-fuck-buddy, ex-friends-with-benefits, ex whatever the hell you want to call it. The point is Ryan called it off a couple of days ago.” Gabe shrugs. He doesn’t seem particularly broken up by the events.

Spencer did not know about this.

“Why did I not know about this?” he asks the room at large.

Gabe and Victoria exchange meaningful looks though Spencer has no idea what they might actually, you know, _mean_.

Gabe just shrugs again and Victoria continues fussing with the sleeves of Spencer’s jacket. And when they suggest a trial of sorts tomorrow, Spencer is so distracted by the news Gabe dropped in his lap that he agrees without a second thought.

  
***

  
“You want me to do _what_?” It’s only a little past nine in the morning and Spencer has not had enough coffee for this.

Gabe and Victoria are flanking him on both sides, completely overcrowding the small table Spencer is sitting at. This is his favourite coffee shop in the entire Western Quarter, full of character and home-made muffins to die for, and now Spencer’s breakfast is ruined by the appearance of the evil fashion twins.

“Well,” Victoria says soothingly. “We thought it would be a good idea for you to, um, put some of that attitude into practice before the big event.”

“What she means,” Gabe clarifies with way too much enjoyment, “is that she wants you to work it. At work.”

Spencer scowls at Gabe because he can’t bring himself to scowl at Victoria. “Since when do you care about this?”

“It’s for the greater good,” Gabe says, but somehow Spencer thinks he’s not talking about the charity show.

“Please, Spencer. You _promised_.”

And Victoria is right, Spencer did promise. In two days Spencer is supposed to walk up and down that runway wearing a suit fit for a space hooker and he’s going to have to make it look good. He doesn’t want to ruin the show or disappoint his friends, and most of all he wants to wipe that disbelieving look right off Ryan’s face.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

  
***

  
Two hours later Spencer is at work. He’s wearing a baby pink tee and tight jeans – an outfit usually reserved for rare ‘I’m-definitely-getting-sex-tonight’

dates – because Gabe and Victoria had taken one look at his normal work clothes and made him go home and change.

Now they are both hanging out at the store with Spencer, apparently not trusting him to practice on his own. Spencer would feel insulted except for how they are completely right.

“I can’t do that,” he hisses. “That’s sexual harassment. Sexual harassment of a _customer_!”

“I’m not asking you to touch him inappropriately for goodness’ sake!” Victoria crosses her arms defensively. “You just need to act like you could. If he wanted you to.”

“And _make _him want you to.” Gabe adds. “Who knows, you might even sell something.”

With a final glare over his shoulder Spencer stalks across the room.

“Can I help you?” he asks, trying to make it sound seductive rather than snappy.

The guy looks up, and then unexpectedly clutches at Spencer’s forearm like he’s a lifebuoy. “Oh my god, yes!” he says.

Spencer blinks down – the guy really is quite short – because that was much easier than he thought. “Well, um, okay then. What did—?”

“See, my friend bought this shirt here a few days ago. It has like...” The guy makes complicated finger movements over his chest.

“Ruffles?” Spencer guesses.

“Yes!” The guy smiles up at him, absently chewing on his lip ring. “That’s the word!”

“So you want a ruffled shirt then?” Spencer asks. He stands closer than strictly necessary and smiles back. The guy is tiny and excited and actually really fucking hot so it’s not like it’s a hardship. The tattoos covering his rather nicely-shaped arms are a definite plus.

Spencer is almost disappointed when it turns out that Frank – that’s his name – is purchasing clothes to match his boyfriend who is on some sort of New Romantics kick and determined to drag the rest of their band with him.

“I mean we’re going to look ridiculous,” Frank says, speculatively fingering a white studded waistcoat. “But we usually do anyway. And it makes Gerard happy.”

Spencer grins. He genuinely likes the guy and by the time Frank leaves, they’ve exchanged phone numbers and Spencer’s got himself an invitation to the band’s next gig.

Gabe and Victoria give him thumbs up from where they are perched on one of the displays, bracketing a dummy in a ‘60s polyester suit like a pair of attractive bookends.

Spencer’s good mood lasts right until the moment he catches a group of teenagers laughing and shoving each other in the corner. It’s not that he has anything against teenagers, but these particular ones are known for causing mischief and Spencer really doesn’t have time or the patience for this today.

“You!” he barks, searching for a name. “Alex!”

Three heads whip around in unison while the fourth one remains bent over a small hula-dancer figurine.

Spencer rolls his eyes, snaps his fingers prissily and makes threats about banning them from every shop in the area, because he _could_, he’s just that awesome.

Eventually the gang of Alexs troop out with a few snarky comments about Spencer’s shirt and a sidelong glance from the red-haired one that Spencer is horrified to realise is probably meant to be flirtatious.

“Well,” Victoria says. “You clearly have the ‘don’t-fuck-with-me’ attitude already nailed.”

Gabe nods. “We just need to work on the ‘wanna-fuck?’ attitude some more.”

There’s a jingle of bells as Ryan enters the shop, followed by Brendon, Jon and Tom. They’re all laughing about something although Brendon seems to be protesting through it.

“You could practice on Ryan,” Gabe suggests loudly.

Ryan doesn’t seem fazed by seeing his ex-whatever. “Practice what?” he asks instead, while Spencer goes bright red and steps on Gabe’s foot. Hard.

“Motherfucking _ow_!” Gabe curses when Victoria kicks him in the shins for good measure.

“Practice what?” Jon repeats the question, curiosity written over his face. He has one arm slung over Tom’s shoulders and the other resting around Brendon’s waist in a way that’s not casual at all.

“What are you _wearing_, Spencer?” Ryan asks, just as Brendon says: “Whoa, whoa, you look _hot_, Spencer!”

“We’re doing a sort of trial run for tomorrow’s show,” Victoria explains, and takes it upon herself to give a condensed version of the whole thing. Somehow she manages to make it sound like something fun and sexy instead of humiliating.

“And you want to... practice on me?” Ryan says. His voice is flat and there’s a curious look on his face like maybe he’s angry or worse: trying not to laugh.

Spencer flushes. “No! No I don’t,” he says emphatically, while pinching Gabe’s side as viciously as he can.

“_Son of a bitch_,” Gabe yelps. “I’m fucking safewording, okay? You can stop with the abuse.”

“You could practice on Tom and Jon,” Brendon proposes brightly.

“What?” says Spencer.

“No,” says Ryan. “I mean, that... would be awkward, right?”

And, well. If someone would have asked yesterday if Spencer would be cool with putting the moves on two of his closest friends while several others look on, he would have said pretty much the same thing. But now... Ryan is looking at him like the whole thing is a joke, like maybe _Spencer _is the joke, and the same thing that made him agree to model in the first place, raises its head again.

“Oh I don’t know...” Spencer drawls, deliberately cocking his hip just so as he leans on the counter. “What’s so awkward about a little harmless flirting between friends?” He keeps his expression bland and a little arrogant and his eyes on Ryan’s for the whole time.

_Fuck you_, Spencer thinks. _Fuck you, Ryan Ross_. Spencer is not some asexual dummy and he’s tired of Ryan treating him like one.

There’s a tense silence as everyone holds their breath. Spencer is aware of how unfair it is to draw his friends into whatever the hell is going on between him and Ryan, but he doesn’t much care at the moment. He’ll apologise later.

Finally Tom coughs. “We’re cool with it,” he says. There’s laughter in his voice.

Spencer breaks the staring match, turning his back to Ryan. “Yeah?”

“Sure, sure, anything to help.” Jon is nodding, his eyes crinkled at the corners. “Bring on your best game, Spencer Smith.”

Spencer laughs. He has awesome friends. Even if his best one is currently being an ass.

“My best game, eh?” He closes his eyes briefly and when he opens them he’s not looking at Tom and Jon his friends, he’s looking at two hot guys who Spencer wouldn’t mind getting to know better at all.

“You guys going to be worth my best game?” He asks, stepping closer now, letting his eyes linger on both of them.

Jon’s smile deepens and takes an edge to it that Spencer’s never seen directed at anyone but Tom, not even Brendon since the two of them are wisely taking it slow and careful with him.

By now Tom is openly checking Spencer out and Spencer gives him something to stare at, stretching his arms behind his back and flashing some skin between his jeans and t-shirt.

Tom’s grin is _very _appreciative. “Oh, we’ll make it worth your time,” he says.

_Brendon_, Spencer thinks, _is one lucky bastard_. Even if he doesn’t realise it yet. Out loud Spencer says: “Well in that case, let me show you some of our new stock. There are some items you might find interesting...”

Jon and Tom drift apart, just enough to allow Spencer to slot in between them smoothly, like a piece of a puzzle. He wraps his arms around their waists, resting a hand low on each hip as he starts to lead them further into the shop. Spencer wasn’t lying, he does have some old photography equipment to show that had been hidden in a pile of winter coats, and that he’s pretty sure Jon and Tom would love to display at their studio.

He can’t resist glancing over his shoulder as they walk away. Gabe and Victoria are looking disturbingly like proud parents, Brendon is torn somewhere between awed and jealous, and Ryan...

Ryan is not watching. He’s pointedly staring at the nearest wall, the tense curve of his back radiating upset so clearly that Spencer actually feels a twinge of guilt. He opens his mouth to say something, to call out Ryan’s name, all the while fighting an irrational urge to apologise. But _he _hasn’t done anything to apologise for. Ryan’s the one acting like a jerk when Spencer could use some support from his best friend.

So in the end he doesn’t say anything, just turns his attention back to Jon and Tom. If nothing else, maybe he can make a good sale and have some fun while doing it.

  
***

  
Later that night they’re in _Ruby Rage_. It’s crowded because the club is too tiny to be anything else, ever.

Nate, who works there when he’s not puking his guts out, had called in some favours and there’s an honest-to-god booth waiting for Spencer and his ever present entourage of Victoria and Gabe. Jon and Tom had claimed that the afternoon’s experience with Spencer had been more than enough and that they couldn’t possibly take any more without falling in love with him. They’d grabbed Brendon and gone home for what Spencer suspects will be a nauseatingly PG-rated date night of ice-cream and Disney movies.

“Wow,” Spencer says, sliding into the booth. “I don’t think I’ve ever managed to actually sit down in here.”

“I thought seats in _Ruby Rage_ were an urban myth, like sewer alligators.” Gabe too looks very impressed, wriggling on the velvet cushions.

“My boy’s got connections,” Victoria says proudly, sipping her cocktail.

“Your boy’s got a lot going for him,” Gabe smiles in a worryingly leer-free fashion. “Not least a smoking hot and talented girlfriend.”

Spencer rolls his eyes, pushing off the table and heading towards the bar. The music is somewhere between punk and industrial, with a heavy underlying bass line that throbs in his chest like a second heart. Spencer is wearing the clothes he’s going to be modelling tomorrow. It’s not usual for catwalk clothes to be allowed out into the real world of sweaty clubs, but Victoria had claimed special circumstances, and that her creation needed an authentic worn-in feel to look its best anyway. She had worked her magic and the suit now fits Spencer perfectly. It’s too hot for the jacket though so Spencer has left that behind, just wearing a plain black v-neck tee with the belt-kilt-pants-boots combo.

The heels make him even taller than normal, but Spencer’s more or less gotten the hang of walking on them. He takes the scenic route, circling the dance floor, letting his eyes linger. Part of him still feels ridiculous; it’s like he’s playing the role of someone sexy and confident. This – cruising a club – is not really Spencer’s scene and no amount of eyeliner and suggestive clothing is going to make it so.

Still, Spencer shrugs mentally, pushing toward the bar, it’s not like he’s actually planning on taking anyone home tonight.

Spencer notices Ryan as soon as he gets close enough, but then again Ryan is impossible not to notice – at least for Spencer.

Ryan is leaning on the bar, looking more self-conscious than Spencer’s seen him in years. He’s not drinking or talking and as Spencer watches, Ryan shakes his head and turns down an invitation to dance or something else from a pretty girl next to him.

Spencer is frozen in place, unsure what to do. It’s only been a few hours since their... Spencer doesn’t even know what to call it. Maybe it was nothing, maybe it was all in Spencer’s head and he should just—

The decision is taken out of his hands as Ryan’s wandering gaze lands on Spencer. He startles visibly, straightening up so fast he almost trips over his own feet. Spencer fights the urge to fidget and makes himself stand still and tall.

Ryan cocks his head to the side, waving at him tentatively. Spencer answers the gesture before he has time to even consider it.

When he finally tells his feet to move toward the bar, the expression on Ryan’s face is one of thinly-disguised relief. With a sickening twist to his stomach Spencer realises that Ryan actually thought Spencer might turn around and leave. Which, considering how many times he’s walked out in the middle of an argument during the last few days, is kind of understandable.

In that moment any anger Spencer feels gets directed at himself. Ryan’s had enough people in his life that have left or turned their backs on him in other ways, and now Spencer is no better than any of them.

He has an apology ready by the time he’s within speaking distance, but Ryan gets there first.

“I’m sorry,” he says, not quite meeting Spencer’s eyes. “I was a dick.”

Spencer huffs a laugh. “Yeah, you were,” he says, nudging Ryan’s elbow with his own. “But so was I.”

Ryan raises his eyebrows at him.

“I mean don’t get me wrong,” Spencer adds. “You were definitely the bigger dick.”

Ryan grins and Spencer is not far behind. He bites down on the questions he still doesn’t have answers for. Like why Ryan was acting so weird in the first place or why he didn’t tell Spencer about breaking up with Gabe. It feels like a discussion he doesn’t want to have in the middle of a noisy club.

“So,” Ryan says, eyeing Spencer up and down. “Dress-rehearsals?”

“Yeah, I guess. Vicky and Gabe thought I might need some more practice, but I think they got kind of distracted.” He nods toward the corner where the two of them are in deep discussion, swapping a phone back and forth. Guess whatever they’re talking about also includes Nate.

Spencer gauges Ryan’s reaction but he just seems amused.

“Besides,” Spencer continues. “As long as I don’t fall flat on my face on the catwalk, I’ll call it a win.”

“I don’t know.” Ryan quirks an eyebrow at him. “You could suggest it as a special number. Falling down on the catwalk. Maybe throw in a barrel roll. I’d give generously to see that.”

Spencer smacks Ryan on the head, both of them laughing. He has his best friend back and for a moment everything’s normal, everything’s _perfect_.

Then Ryan tilts Spencer’s world upside down again.

“Practice on me,” he says.

“What?”

Ryan meets his eyes almost defiantly. “_Practice on me_. Your...” He waves a hand over Spencer. “...thing, attitude, seduction, whatever. Practice on me. You did it with Jon and Tom.”

Spencer is reeling. Ryan is offering... Ryan wants him to... “That’s not funny,” he says.

Ryan blushes, whether from embarrassment or anger Spencer’s not sure. “I’m not joking, Spence.”

And that’s the thing. Spencer knows Ryan’s not joking, because he _knows _Ryan’s ‘I’m taking the piss’ voice and this isn’t it, and because he _knows Ryan_.

Ryan’s face is flushed, his breathing a little too fast and for once in his life Spencer isn’t being sensible, he just wants.

“Okay,” he says, his mouth suddenly dry. This is a bad idea, Spencer knows it is, but it’ll also probably be the only chance he’ll get. “Yeah, okay.”

Ryan looks surprised, like he didn’t expect Spencer to say yes quite that easily and for a second Spencer thinks he blew it, too eager, too obvious, too—

And then Ryan smiles, small and real, and Spencer just lets go; lets his guard down, lets himself look, _really look_, like he’s wanted to for so long.

Ryan is all long limbs and pale skin, his eyes smudged with something dark and glittery. Spencer lets himself think all the things he wants to do to him, with him, and he lets each and every one of them show on his face. Because Ryan is fucking gorgeous and tonight he could be Spencer’s.

“Would you like a drink?” Spencer asks, leaning close enough to brush his lips against the shell of Ryan’s ear; just a light, fleeting touch that nevertheless makes Ryan draw a sharp breath, his hand suddenly tight on Spencer’s arm.

“Yes,” Ryan says. He doesn’t let go.  


***

  
Spencer beckons the barman over, placing their order. He takes far longer than necessary to put away his change, folding the notes carefully, before finally turning to look at Ryan.

“So,” he says. And wow, this is awkward. What the hell had Spencer been thinking? Flirting with Frank, with Jon and Tom, had been easy. After all, it’s not like Spencer is in love with any of _them_.

The bottle is cold and slippery with condensation, and Spencer clutches it like a lifeline. He’s not going to back out now. He’s _not_.

Ryan cocks his eyebrow at him, and the gesture is so achingly familiar Spencer feels some of the tension drain out of him. “I swear to God, Smith. If you ask me if I come here often, I will walk out right now.”

Spencer tips his head back and laughs, the rest of the awkwardness vanishing. This is Ryan. He knows how to talk to _Ryan_. “I was going to go with something more sophisticated like...” He drops his voice to an exaggerated drawl. “Is it hot in here or is it just you?”

Ryan snorts. “Classy.”

Spencer just grins. “If I told you that you had a nice body, would you hold it against me?”

“_Oh my god_.”

“There must be something wrong with my eyes. I can't take them off you.”

Ryan groans, leaning on the sticky bar, head buried in the crook of his elbow.

“If I could rearrange the alphabet I'd put U and I together,” Spencer comments, with as much sincerity as he can muster.

“Stop, stop, I can’t take it any more.” Ryan’s voice is muffled and shaking with laughter.

Spencer pats his back consolingly. “I’ve got plenty more, you know.”

“First thing tomorrow,” Ryan says, straightening up. “I’m disconnecting the Internet at the shop. Or taping Brendon’s mouth shut. One of them is clearly responsible for your appalling collection of pick-up lines.”

After that it’s easier. They talk about normal everyday things – the shop, their friends, the show – and in some ways it’s not so different from any other night Spencer and Ryan have spent just like this. But in other ways...

Spencer watches the curve of Ryan’s back under the thin t-shirt, the vulnerable strip of skin at the small of his back that is revealed every time he leans forward. Spencer wants to touch it.

The wanting is not new. Spencer is used to it, the quick flares of desire that sometimes still take him unawares. He is also used to stamping them out, not acting on the instinct that would have him reach out and put his hands on Ryan whenever he liked.

But tonight he doesn’t have to do that. Right now, Spencer _can _reach out and touch like he wants to.

So he does.

Ryan falters in the middle of the sentence, his eyes fluttering shut for a second. Spencer likes that a lot. Then Ryan picks up the conversation, shifting closer, noticeably pressing back against Spencer’s hand. Spencer likes that even better.

“Let’s go dance,” Ryan says, turning in a way that doesn’t so much dislodge Spencer’s hand as make it slide down and settle on Ryan’s hip.

“Hmm?” It’s not like Spencer’s never stood this close to Ryan – after all they’ve spent most of the last twenty odd years practically living in each other’s pockets – but it’s different this time. Spencer gets distracted by watching his thumb slowly rubbing the waistline of Ryan’s jeans, nail scraping over bare skin.

“Dancing, c’mon.” Ryan sounds hoarse. He hooks his fingers into one of the metal rings in Spencer’s belt and pulls him onto the dance floor.

Spencer’s not much of a dancer, usually too self-conscious or simply busy talking to people. But Ryan doesn’t wait for him to get with the programme, just places Spencer’s other hand on his hip too, and winds his own arms around Spencer’s waist.

Spencer doesn’t think that you can call what they’re doing dancing. Still, rhythm’s never been his problem, so he keeps them moving, pressed together from chest to knee, legs twined.

The music is not anything Spencer recognises, but it hardly matters. Ryan smells good, familiar, like shampoo and fabric dust and the peppermint of the same aftershave he’s used as long as he’s been shaving. Spencer remembers Ryan teaching him to shave with the experience of his extra year, the two of them in Spencer’s brightly lit bathroom, Ryan’s fingers cold against Spencer’s still too-round cheeks.

The memory is sharp, and underneath it there are dozens more, clamouring for attention: Ryan’s face on a Christmas morning when they were eleven and twelve, Ryan cross-legged on Spencer’s bed telling him about his first kiss, Ryan passed out on the floor after the college finals, Ryan bringing him coffee last week, his hair wet from the sudden rain.

But _this_, this right here, is not a memory, or a dream. Spencer buries his face against Ryan’s shoulder, closing his eyes. It’s not like practising with the others either; all play-acting and fake emotions. With Ryan, Spencer can’t pretend he’s pretending. Not even to himself.

The music changes and they come to a stop in the middle of the dance floor, Ryan’s fingers drawing small hesitant circles over Spencer’s back. They’re both breathing hard, Spencer’s mouth open against the damp skin of Ryan’s neck.

It’s all shockingly, viscerally _real_, and Spencer bites down without a conscious decision to do so.

Ryan gasps, shuddering against Spencer and with a jolt he realises they’re both hard._ Fuck yes_, Spencer thinks, his hands fanning across Ryan’s hips and ass as he pulls him closer. But before he has a chance to do anything else about it Ryan wrenches himself out of Spencer’s arms, stalking toward the exit.

Spencer is only five steps behind him. There’s no way he’s letting Ryan run out on him like this.

The cold night air hits him like a fist to the gut. Ryan is standing at the curb, his shoulders hunched.

Spencer grabs his elbow, spinning him around. “_Ryan_, what?”

“I think you got it now,” Ryan says, mouth tight.

“What?”

“I think you got it,” Ryan repeats. “So you can stop with the _practising_, play-acting, whatever.” He shrugs, not meeting Spencer’s eyes.

This is it, Spencer thinks. He opens his mouth to speak, to say _‘I was never acting’_ or_ ‘We should talk’_, or_ ‘I love you’_.

But there’s a bruise already blooming on Ryan’s neck and he’s still hard, the outline of his cock visible against the front of his jeans.

So instead Spencer says: “Come home with me.”

  
***

  
They hit the inside of Spencer’s front door hard, mouths crashing together even harder. Ryan half moans, half laughs into the kiss, the sound turning into a high-pitched whine when Spencer sinks his teeth into Ryan’s bottom lip.

“What’s so goddamn funny?” he asks though he’s feeling giddy and light-headed himself, teetering somewhere between hysteria and desperate arousal.

“I don’t know,” Ryan says, panting. “I don’t know, Spence. What are we doing?” He’s arching off the door, their hips stuttering together restlessly.

There are several answers to that, but Spencer doesn’t particularly want to discuss any of them right now. Instead he bites down on Ryan’s neck again, the same spot as before and Ryan curses, his fingers scrabbling at Spencer’s belt buckle.

It catches on the kilt, ripping the button, and the whole thing pools around Spencer’s feet.

“Victoria is going to kill you,” Spencer gasps between kisses.

“I don’t care,” Ryan says, walking Spencer backwards toward the bedroom and Spencer goes with it easily. It’s not like he needs to give directions; Ryan knows Spencer’s apartment probably better than his own.

They trip over piles of dirty laundry, clutching at each other for balance. Spencer pushes Ryan’s shirt out of the way, trying to kick off his boots at the same time.

“Fuck, I can’t. Fucking boots.” He sits down at the edge of the bed, hands never leaving Ryan’s skin.

“Your boots are hot,” Ryan giggles, sliding to his knees and pulling off Spencer’s blue glittery boots one after the other.

“_You’re_ hot,” Spencer says and he doesn’t even feel stupid about it, because it’s true.

“_Yeah_?” Ryan breathes against Spencer’s lips and then they’re kissing again, wet and slow. When Spencer surfaces Ryan is still on his knees, fingers curling under Spencer’s waistband, eyes dark and heavy.

“_Yeah_,” Spencer whispers and it’s the last coherent thing he says for a while. Everything splinters into snapshots, like Spencer’s brain is incapable of processing the events in a linear narrative and can only deal with fragments of sensation.

_...‘please, please, Spence’ and he’s never heard Ryan like this, needy and raw. Spencer pulls Ryan down, onto his cock, and Ryan keens, his shoulder blades sharp like wings under Spencer’s hands and..._

...spit-slick mouth sliding over his, hot drag of tongues and bite of teeth and they never stop kissing, not even when...

__

...Spencer’s spread open, gasping against the pillow, knees digging into the sheets. Behind him Ryan says ‘shh, shh’ and licks the back of Spencer’s neck, his fingers twisting inside him and then...

__

...wan morning light creeping through the curtains, playing across Ryan’s ribs like piano keys. Spencer moulds his hand over the curve of Ryan’s side, his head empty and his heart too full, sleep tugging him under

__.

  
***

  
Spencer wakes up slowly, the climb to consciousness long and meandering. Next to him Ryan is fast asleep, breathing open-mouthed against Spencer’s shoulder, arm resting heavily over his waist.

A warm feeling of relief makes every muscle in Spencer’s body feel like liquid, a smile stretching over his face. Ryan is still here. That has to mean something, right?

Spencer reaches out, fingers hovering inches from Ryan’s skinny shoulder but his hand freezes on the spot when he sees the time.

“_Oh shit_,” he hisses as quietly as he can. The charity show is today and he is so fucking late it’s not even funny.

Spencer slides out of the bed, careful not to jostle Ryan. He hastily throws the clothes he’s meant to be modelling into a bag – Victoria really is going to kill someone – before picking a relatively clean T-shirt and a pair of jeans and hitting the shower.

By the time he gets out of the bathroom Ryan is awake, though barely.

“Bwuh? Spencer?” he mumbles around a yawn, struggling to sit up. His hair is sticking up in every direction and there are pillow creases over his face.

Spencer feels his throat tighten at the sight. He still doesn’t know if last night was the best or worst idea of his life but at the moment he wants nothing more than to walk up to Ryan and kiss him before he has a chance to even _think _the word _mistake_.

But then his eyes slide to the alarm clock on the night-stand and everything else gets pushed aside by _late, late, Vicky is going to castrate me._

“I got to run,” he says over his shoulder, snatching his bag. “The show!”

Ryan’s mouth opens but Spencer’s already bolting for the door and doesn’t have time to hear what he says.

  
***

  
Spencer gets to the venue thirty minutes after he was supposed to be in make-up and publicity photos and whatever the hell else.

Victoria comes over to him as soon as he sees him, Gabe trotting on her heels like a particularly leery Labrador. She pauses in front of Spencer, takes a one good look at him and the forlorn looking bag of clothes he’s carrying and says: “_Oh my god_! You had sex_ in the suit_!”

Next to her Gabe’s eyes bug out comically. “_Oh my god_!” he says. “You had sex _with Ryan_!”

Spencer would try to deny it, but it’s impossible to stop either the blush Spencer feels spreading over his face or the helpless grin that follows in its wake.

“Not that it’s any of your business,” he says. “And technically I wasn’t wearing the suit at the time.” Well, it was mostly true. Spencer has a sudden and vivid memory of Ryan going down on him, face buried between the open V of the trousers.

He shakes his head, trying to clear it. “Though you might have to sew the skirt button again...”

Victoria seems torn between wanting to hug him and wanting to eviscerate him on the spot. In the end she just takes the garment bag and mutely gestures Spencer toward make-up.

  
***

  
The backstage area is absolute chaos. Spencer ducks and weaves around people, finally making it through the doorway labelled ‘Make-Up – Models Only’.

“Hi, I’m Amanda,” the woman say, pushing Spencer into the nearest chair. She has stripy socks and black hair, shorn short and messy. “You’re modelling Vicky T’s show-piece, right?”

Spencer nods in affirmation, watching as Amanda methodically goes through her make-up kit, pulling out jars and brushes.

“Hey, could you draw some birds on my face?” Spencer asks, feeling silly. But what the hell, he can’t exactly carry a placard during his turn on the catwalk that says ‘RYAN ROSS, I LOVE YOU AND I WAS NEVER PRETENDING’ so this is a viable alternative. It’s a message Ryan, and _only _Ryan, will understand. If he is there to see it.

“Birds, huh?” Amanda says, tilting her head to the side. “Wanna show me what you mean?”

Spencer picks up an eyeliner pen, drawing a clumsy m-shaped bird high on his cheek.

Amanda regards him silently for a few seconds before breaking into a grin. “I think that might actually work, honey,” she says and gets to work.

Twenty minutes later Spencer doesn’t really recognise himself in the mirror. His eyes are smeared with black, his lips a bruised purple colour. It should look ridiculous on him but instead it makes his face seem harder somehow, meaner.

He touches his fingertips lightly over the flock of birds flying on his right cheek.

“C’mon, put some attitude into it,” Amanda says, peering at the mirror over his shoulder.

Attitude. Right. Spencer can do that, he’s been practising after all.

“Nice work,” someone says behind him and Spencer whirls around to find Nate standing in the doorway, a garment bag draped over his arm. “Knew you had it in you.”

“Nate,” Spencer greets. “You look like shit, shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“I’ve spent the last week in bed,” Nate grumbles. “That and the bathroom.”

Spencer grimaces sympathetically.

“C’mon, get changed.” Nate thrusts the clothes at Spencer. “Vicky needs you for the promo shots.”

Spencer takes the bag and does as he’s told.

  
***

  
A couple of hours, three interviews with various representatives of local media, and approximately five thousand photos later Spencer is finally released to go find something to eat before he passes out. _Access All Areas _is one of the official sponsors of the event so having the owner ‘shake his booty on the catwalk’ like one reporter memorably put it, is apparently newsworthy.

Spencer’s face feels stiff from all the smiling but the least he can do is make an effort. It’s not the reporters’ fault Spencer chose last night of all nights to fall in bed with his best friend and either ruin the best thing in his life or make it even better – the jury’s still out on that one.

There’s no word from Ryan and Spencer tries to ignore the worry gnawing at his gut like a hungry animal. He could call Ryan himself if only he knew what to say. Besides, ‘no news is good news’, right? Until he hears otherwise, Spencer can _hope_, can still think ‘maybe, just maybe’. And as foolish as that may be, it’s more than he’s had before and Spencer is reluctant to let it go any sooner than he has to.

He snags some food from the cafeteria and heads off to the exhibition hall where _Access All Areas_ has its own stall. By the looks of it Brendon is doing brisk business and Spencer is pleased for both them and the charity to which they’re donating 20% of today’s sales.

Brendon sees him coming and does a gratifying double-take, the velvet minidress he’s showing to a customer slipping from his suddenly lax fingers.

“_Oh fuck me_,” he says with feeling, whipping out a digital camera before Spencer has the chance to duck for cover.

“_Spencer Smith_,” Brendon drawls with a face-splitting grin. “You’ve been holding out on us. Come check out your ex-fake-boyfriend,” he calls over his shoulder.

Patrick pops out from behind one of the displays, wearing a Borsalino and a rather dishevelled Pete Wentz. Well, Pete is glued so close to Patrick’s back that he practically qualifies as an accessory.

Patrick’s eyebrows disappear under the hat brim when he spots Spencer. “Well damn,” he says. “Do you think it’s too late to change my mind?”

“Hey! No take-backsies, you said!” Pete pouts at Patrick, winding an arm around his waist in an entirely unsubtle show of possessiveness.

Spencer bites back a laugh. “Don’t you two have your own stall to look after? Or make out in?” He gives Patrick the ‘_I want the details later_’ eyebrow as they leave, Patrick smiling smugly and Pete trailing after him with a dazed look on his face.

“Ryan called,” Brendon says, interrupting Spencer’s thoughts. “Said he was running late but should be here soon.”

There are no missed calls on his cell. Spencer knows because he’s been checking it obsessively every five minutes, hoping and dreading in equal measure.

He tries not to read anything into it. Ryan knows he’s busy with pre-show stuff and it makes perfect sense for him to call Brendon and check how things are going with the stall.

“Okay, cool,” Spencer nods, aiming for nonchalance but probably missing by a mile. “I’ve got to go, but I’ll catch you guys later.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Brendon says and Spencer walks back the way he came.

The fashion show proper is due to start in less than an hour and he’s pretty sure Vicky is already looking for him.

  
***

  
The runway looks much longer from back here than it does from the ground, Spencer thinks, standing behind the curtains. There’s a moment of pure blind panic –what the hell is he doing? – but then Spencer steels himself. Vicky, Nate and Gabe are looking at him anxiously from the sidelines and Spencer knows Brendon, Jon and Tom are waiting to see him. He can’t let his friends down. There’s no sign of Ryan but the glare of spotlights is bright enough to hide everyone beyond them.

Spencer rolls his eyes when the music kicks in. Talk about irony. Vicky had decided that Marilyn Manson’s cover of _Tainted Love_ would be the perfect song to show off the suit, but Spencer doubts she knew just how _fitting _a choice it would turn out to be.

He winds his fist around one of the longer chains hanging off the jacket, and climbs the steps up to the stage. At the last second someone hands Spencer something long and thin and by the time he realises it’s an honest to god _riding crop_ – which, seriously, Spencer is pretty sure his _mom _is in the audience – it’s too late.

Spencer takes a deep breath and waits for the song’s intro to finish, timing his entrance to the opening lines. He doesn’t know if Ryan is in the audience but he hopes so, because if Spencer is any good today it’s because of him.

Spencer stalks down the walkway and the rhythm of his hips is the same one that made Ryan mewl and claw at the sheets less than fifteen hours ago. The curve of his hand on the crop is the same Spencer used to bring them both off, chest-to-chest in Spencer’s bed, their cocks in the clasp of his palm.

He reaches the far end of the stage, doing a neat turn on his heels. The coat flares around him with a clink of chains.

By the time he’s ready to start his second and final round of the runway Spencer’s beginning to enjoy himself. The audience seems to approve, judging by the noise – he recognises Brendon’s enthusiastic _woohoo _and Jon’s piercing wolf-whistle – and Spencer puts some extra snap into his hips just for that. He thinks about last night, pinning Ryan’s wrists above his head, the sounds he made, and if all of that shows in his smile then at least it goes with the rest of the look.

Spencer slows down as he nears the end of the runway again, waiting for the crash of the music he knows is coming.

He trails his fingertips over his belt, taps the crop against his own legs in rhythm with the drum line. Two quick steps, right to the edge, and then Spencer drops to a crouch, one hand on the ground for support, the other raising the crop in one smooth movement as he brings it down hard. The sound it makes hitting the stage mere inches from the front row more than matches the scream of the vocals as the song reaches its climax.

Spencer holds the position for a while, eyes down, breathing heavily. The lights and the jacket are making him hot and when he finally lifts his head he can feel the sweat running down his neck.

Spencer licks salt off his lips, gets up and brings the audience to their feet with him.

He thinks he may have done okay.

  
***

Backstage Victoria flings herself at him, babbling about how many people have already expressed interest over the suit and her other designs. Spencer thinks she may be crying a little but he doesn’t mention it, just grins at Gabe and Nate over her shoulder.

The show is hardly over just because Spencer’s part is finished. Nate hustles Spencer and the rest of Vicky’s models out of the way, making room for the next lot.

Spencer kind of wants to slip into the audience to find Brendon and the others, but there are too many people and he feels awkward now that the high of the performance is dissipating. And if he’s being honest with himself, he’s not quite ready to go looking for Ryan, because he’s not at all sure he was there in the first place.

So Spencer returns to the dressing rooms, changing into his normal clothes and carefully folding up the suit. He steals some make-up remover from Amanda’s kit and starts cleaning his face. In the mirror his eyes are tired, last night finally catching up with him. The birds on his cheek are smudged but still recognisable, and Spencer doesn’t have the heart to wipe them off yet.

Spencer is wandering aimlessly around the stands when he finally spots Tom’s messy hair.

“Oh my god, it’s Spencer Smith!” Brendon shrieks when he sees him, clutching at his heart melodramatically. “Can I have your autograph? Right here, please.” He points at his ass and pretends to unbuckle his belt.

“Oh fuck you,” Spencer laughs as Jon snatches him into a bear-hug.

“Seriously man, you were fierce!” Tom says, and Brendon gives Spencer thumbs up, promising to put the video onto the shop’s website as soon as possible.

Spencer looks around but doesn’t see the slim figure of his best friend anywhere. “Uh, you guys seen Ryan?” he asks.

Brendon’s smile falters, eyes sympathetic enough to make Spencer grimace internally. “He was sitting with us during the show,” Brendon says. “He must have slipped out.”

So he was there. But now he isn’t. Spencer has no idea what that means, if anything.

Everyone makes noises about going to the after-party, which, according to Gabe who comes pounding by, will be ‘_so epic dude, you don’t even know_!’, but Spencer declines all invitations. He sends Brendon, Jon and Tom off to enjoy themselves, promising to pack up their temporary stall and get everything back to the shop.

It takes some convincing, but finally Spencer is on his own again. The stall is in chaos, clothes strewn everywhere, and Spencer sets to work.

  
***

  
_This is Ryan, I’m sorry I can’t take your call right now. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you._

Spencer waits for Ryan’s voicemail to finish its standard set of instructions, fingers tapping restlessly against the counter.

“Hi, it’s me,” he says once the beep of the recorder finally sounds. “I’m at the shop, sorting stuff out. Didn’t catch you at the show so I thought...” He hesitates, considering his options. He thought what? That they should talk? Fuck some more? Be boyfriends? What the hell do you say in a situation like this? Spencer doesn’t think ‘_Hey Ryan, want to live happily ever after with me and maybe get a puppy_?’ is going to cut it.

In the end he just finishes with: “Yeah. Anyway. I’m at the shop. Don’t be a douche and disappear on me, okay?” Which, maybe not the smoothest message ever, but it gets his point across.

Spencer presses the disconnect button with more force than necessary and tosses his phone onto the counter where it skitters crazily before coming to rest against the cash register.

It’s been three hours since Spencer got back to the shop with the boxes of unsold clothes. Vicky and Nate had given him a lift, though luckily there hadn’t been that much left over from the stock they’d taken to the show. They’d made a nice profit, which was good news for _Access All Areas_ and the charity, so from a business-owner’s point of view Spencer is more than pleased with today.

From a personal point of view... Well, it’s not every day you have sex with your best friend who you’re in love with _and _make your catwalk début. Spencer is kind of exhausted, the undercurrent of anxiety and cautious hope that he’s been riding all day finally pushing to the surface.

“Fuck!” Spencer curses, thumping his fist against the counter.

“...And hello to you too,” Ryan says, appearing through the bead-curtain.

“_Jesus Christ_!” Spencer almost jumps right out of his skin. “Where the hell—?”

“I came in through the back.” Ryan shrugs, jiggling his keys absently.

“I just called,” Spencer says, glancing at his phone like he needs to check that it’s still there.

“Yeah I know,” Ryan says. “I got your message.”

“That was quick. Where were you? Around the corner?”

“Uh yeah, pretty much.” Ryan stares at his feet. Spencer thinks he might actually be blushing. “The café two blocks down. I just...” His eyes cut quickly up to Spencer’s face and then back down. “Needed some time to think.”

And okay, he should have expected this. It’s what Ryan did whenever he had to make a big decision or had something in his mind; disappeared, sometimes for hours, sometimes for longer. Spencer isn’t sure what, if anything, it means that Ryan is back relatively quickly this time around.

He leans against the till, crossing his arms with a sigh. “Yeah. Long day.”

Ryan seems to relax once he realises that Spencer isn’t going to push for some big talk right now. He comes to stand next to Spencer, their shoulders brushing together with every breath. It’s so eerily similar and yet completely different from the way they were sitting just a few days ago that Spencer gets a sort of vertigo, like somehow when he wasn’t looking the world shifted sideways without his permission.

“We did well, didn’t we?” Ryan asks.

Spencer knows immediately that Ryan doesn’t just mean today. He lets his gaze wander around the shop, _their _shop, the dream he and Ryan made reality. “That we did,” he says.

Ryan smiles at him, the slow, shy kind that Spencer’s never seen him give anyone else. “You left the birds,” Ryan says.

Spencer’s forgotten that they’re still there and he feels his face grow hot. “Wanted to make sure you saw them,” he mumbles. It’s too late for anything but the truth.

“I saw them,” Ryan says, reaching out, his fingertips brushing gently over Spencer’s cheekbone and Spencer can’t help it, he leans into the touch, his mouth falling open silently.

“Remember that summer when...”

“...you used to paint pictures on your face,” Spencer finishes, Ryan’s fingers cool against his heated skin. “I remember. Flowers and trees and just random patterns. But mostly it was birds, flying across your skin.”

Ryan’s thumb is resting at the corner of Spencer’s eye, his hand cupping Spencer’s face now.

“I used to think it was because you wanted to fly away too, like the birds.” They’re so close, so close Spencer can feel Ryan’s breath, hot against his own mouth.

“Spence,” Ryan whispers. “_Spencer_.”

He needs to say it now or he never will, and he can’t do this again, not without being sure they’re on the same page. Spencer swallows, watches Ryan’s eyes drop to his throat, following the movement. “I was never pretending. Last night. I was never... ”

“I know,” Ryan says. He presses closer and Spencer opens his arms like he always does. “Me neither.”

There are still things they need to talk about, things like _when, how long, why now_. But then Ryan surges forward, Spencer meeting him halfway, lips already parted like there was never any question how this night was going to end.

They kiss for a long time, surrounded by racks of clothes and twenty years of shared memories.

This is what they are, Spencer and Ryan and this little shop of theirs: old things made new, things that are the same yet changed, but only for the better, without losing what made them great in the first place. Things that endure.

_Vintage._


End file.
